I lost a book in 1902.
The wind, she stole it from my arms.
The boat.
Its wooden planks
creaked and cracked
as it tossed me side to side.
Wood and wind calling out a jealous tune?
An alliance formed to steal my story.
A truce in homage to the sea?
Or a fight for the right of wills.
No matter.
They've stolen my story;
given it to the sea.
So it is that I sew my next tale.
Made of yarn instead of thread.
The truth.
I say that I lost my story in the sea.
In 1902.
I tossed it away.
In a fit of emotion.
In 1902.
I dream myself a valiant Captain.
Standing broadly in navy blue.
Gold glinting off embellishments
courageously fighting wind and sea.
perhaps a lovely lady.
reading quietly at the bow.
The wind, a scoundrel.
Thieving from my dainty lady hands.
I'll explain it away
while it sits in the depths.
Surrounded by fish.
I sit at my desk
irritation plucking at me.
It deserved to be tossed in.
I hate that gap.
It leaves a pile of dust.
Every morning, I see my books
and I see the dust.
Then I think of the ocean.
I plunged it in.
I must pluck it out.
I scurry the imps together.
Life jackets, sunscreen, and some Tylenol for me.
Fishing pole in hand.
God don't let me catch a fish.
I'd rather not have to toss it back in.
Squirming and slimy
fighting for life.
Life that I'll gladly give.
I beg the ocean to cough it up.
To fill my gap.
To read the end.
To toss the duster,
not my friend.
Since when am I the type
tossing books into the ocean...?
I hold my breath as I turn pages.
squeeze bindings in anticipation.
wrinkle pages with a crying heart.
But never toss away a good story.
Not with pages tattered and torn.
not because of a crappy chapter.
I've written them myself.
A typewriter and life to blame.
In 1902 I threw away a story.
On a stormy day.
I'm fishing it out today.
A friend is a friend, you see.
*Note: This work was found today, January 31, 2019, in my email. I wrote it and tossed it in 2014. It is a never before posted work of mine, lost until you see.
